Epilogue
TWO YEARS LATER
Virtue lowered his still-smoking pistol. It had been a cracking good shot; right through the middle of the board.
“Foul!” Exeter called from behind him.
“Don’t be such a swine,” Virtue sulked, his competitiveness getting the better of him as Exeter laughed. “My foot was nowhere near the line. Come now, accept the truth, that of the two of us, I’m the better marksman.”
It was hardly the truth, but today Virtue had managed twelve shots on target to Exeter’s meagre seven, so he had, in his own estimation, earned the right to lord it over his lover.
Exeter grumbled something about the importance of ‘good sportsmanship’ and somebody being a ‘fraudulent little tease’ as he dipped his mouth to kiss the exposed line of Virtue’s neck. The thick girth of his arousal was evident as he pulled Virtue close.
Perhaps Virtue had teased him a little—but, no, actually, he’d been perfectly justified in removing his shirt and leaving just his trousers and braces on.
The climate in France, such as it was, was like living in a tureen of hot soup.
Even the shaded lawns of their rented chateau, did little to protect them from the thick heat of summer.
If the legitimate removal of his clothes had hastened his opponent’s loss, then that was merely a coincidence that had no bearing on his conduct, he rationalised the way only a guilty party could.
By the time they lay down to picnic, Exeter had removed his shirt as well. He’d done well to avoid the salmon-pinkness that cursed most of their English compatriots abroad. Virtue was well satisfied with his lot in life as he ogled the hard planes of Exeter’s body.
The estate was quiet; their staff of hired locals having taken leave for the day to visit the travelling fayre a town over.
Virtue had pointedly ignored his lover’s glee at there being a prize fight advertised on the bill, and whether he’d like to add the scrap of paper to his collection of bedroom material.
Virtue rested his head on the slightly sweaty sheen of Exeter’s chest. It was the type of day that when flesh pressed against flesh, it stuck with all the tack of glue.
His lover threaded his fingers through his hair, lightly massaging his scalp until his eyes dropped closed.
Even a cat would be jealous of him if they knew how remarkable Exeter’s hands could be.
He smiled as his fingers played with the trail of golden hair on Exeter that led to exciting places.
“What’s got you so happy?”
“You. Thinking about life here, too.” His hand moved to cover Exeter’s hardening prick.
The law in France being inclined to mind its own bloody business regarding what gentlemen got up to in the privacy of their own homes meant they could relax…
somewhat. And by relaxing, he meant frigging al fresco in the quiet of their grounds.
They’d built quite the life for themselves in England, where everyone just assumed it was an oddity, but an accepted one as long as one didn’t look too closely, that two single gentlemen not yet thirty could live in each other’s pockets as much as they did.
When in town, they took furnished apartments in the same building, and Virtue was a permanent enough fixture at Exeter’s country seat that his mother had insisted on decorating the room next to her son’s according to Virtue’s taste.
Not that he stayed in there much for he made ready use of the private go-between that adjoined their rooms to slip into Exeter’s bed.
It was extravagantly big. And as with the other things of Exeter’s that he discovered to be larger: he didn’t mind as long as he got to use them. And use them often.
But their long sojourns on the Continent, avoiding high society, were special. He still had to reply to Douglas’s last letter about the pickle he had got himself into regarding the stablemaster on his estate, but he had faith the man would sort it for himself.
“S’good, isn’t it?” Exeter made a delightful noise as Virtue made short work of his falls, a pink flush of pleasure spreading over his chest. The discovery that Exeter’s blushes acted as a reliable seduction barometer would never fail to amuse Virtue.
When they finally rolled off one another, they lay fingers entwined, staring up at the cloudless sky. Exeter rolled on to his side, the late-evening sun making his golden hair gleam copper.
“To think we’ve had this happiness for two years now.”
“Six,” Virtue countered.
“Oh dear. Did that head injury from cricket render you unable to count?” Exeter peered faux-anxiously down at him.
“It’s definitely two. We can check the betting book at White’s when we get back, if your memory needs jogging.
Isn’t it odd to think that decades from now, someone will read about that and laugh at what bores we were to have a cock measuring contest?
We might as well have decided on who could piss the highest up a wall. ”
“You’re taller. You’d win,” Virtue said idly.
Exeter snorted at that and settled back down. “These six years, then? Are you counting from the moment we met?”
“Yes, I think so. The more I’ve thought on it, my intentions were perfectly clear all along.”
“If you say.”
“I do say,” he laughed. “Think of it this way: I rode out with you every morning. Much to everyone else's annoyance, it was you who sat beside me in my phaeton. We dined together most evenings. I sought your company before any others, and I’d visited your mother so often she was convinced I was her second son.” He brushed Exeter's cheek with his thumb. “There it is. I put it to you that I’d been courting you for the better part of four years.”
Exeter let out a soft huff full of fondness. “The longest unknowing courtship a man ever had.”
“But shall we make a bet on it being one of the greatest?”
“No need to bet. I already know.”